Chương 11: Chapter 10
Jon stood outside Maester Aemon's door, feeling like he was about to meet the ultimate VIP—someone whose legendary status rivaled the most iconic figures from his old world. It was like a scene ripped straight from one of those epic fantasy series he'd binged. The anticipation was so thick he could almost taste it.
He took a deep breath, bracing himself. Alright, Jon, time to channel your inner hero. It's just a meeting with a wise old maester who's probably forgotten more about dragons than any historian from your previous life. No big deal.
With a decisive knock, he announced his presence, hoping he didn't look like a complete rookie.
The door creaked open, and Jon's heart did a little jump. He stepped inside, scanning the room for the legendary figure he'd heard so much about. Maester Aemon sat by the window, his frail form exuding both authority and an ancient sort of wisdom. His blind eyes seemed to hold more stories than any book could ever convey.
"Come in, my boy," Maester Aemon said warmly, waving Jon over. "Don't just stand there like a statue. Sit, sit."
Jon made his way to a chair opposite the maester, trying to maintain a semblance of calm. He sat down, feeling like he was in the middle of a fantasy plot twist that even his binge-watching couldn't have prepared him for.
"Thank you, Maester Aemon," Jon said, his voice full of genuine respect. "I'm really grateful for this chance to talk with you."
Maester Aemon's serene smile could have been straight out of one of those epic tales. "It's my pleasure, young Jon. Though my sight has failed me, my mind remains as sharp as ever. Now, what brings you to my quarters?"
Jon took a moment, wrestling with how to frame his earth-shattering revelation. "Well," he began, "I've always known myself as Jon Snow, the so-called 'bastard' son of Eddard Stark. Growing up with that label made me feel like an outsider in my own family."
He paused, the weight of his secret feeling almost tangible. "But recently, I discovered something that completely flipped my world upside down."
Maester Aemon's voice was filled with curiosity. "And what might that be?"
Jon took a deep breath, ready to drop the bombshell. "The truth is," he said, "I'm not actually Eddard Stark's son. I'm the child of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. My real name is Daemon Targaryen. And you, Maester Aemon, are the only other Targaryen relative I have left in Westeros."
The room fell into a dramatic silence. Jon's words seemed to echo with the weight of destiny. Maester Aemon's expression softened, a mix of surprise and recognition crossing his face. "Daemon Targaryen," he repeated, his voice filled with emotion. "A name befitting one of dragon blood."
Jon felt a strange mix of relief and awe. It was like he'd just unlocked a new level in his personal game, and the stakes had just gone through the roof.
Maester Aemon broke the silence, his voice rich with the weight of ages. "You carry a great legacy, Daemon Targaryen," he said quietly. "One that stretches back through the annals of history. But remember, it is not your name that defines you, but the choices you make and the actions you take."
Jon nodded, trying to absorb the profound wisdom. This wasn't your average pep talk; it was like receiving an ancient scroll of epic guidance.
"As I stand before you, Maester Aemon," Jon said, his voice steady, "I'm not just looking for historical trivia. I need guidance. I'm caught between two worlds now. Should I embrace my Targaryen heritage and try to reclaim what's rightfully mine, or should I stick with the Stark legacy, the family that raised me?"
He paused, letting the gravity of his question sink in. His internal monologue was buzzing with the kind of existential dread that only a major crossover event could provoke.
"I've come to you," Jon continued urgently, "not just because you're my Targaryen uncle but because you're a wise and trusted advisor. What should I do with this truth?"
It felt like he was on the edge of a major plot twist. Here he was, in the midst of his own epic saga, desperately in need of some sage advice.
"Though I'm just a humble maester of Castle Black," Maester Aemon began, his voice carrying a gravity that made Jon sit up and take notice, "I'm honored you came to me for advice. It's reassuring to know you see the value in seeking guidance, especially when everything seems so uncertain."
He paused, his blind eyes seeming to look through the very fabric of the room, as if peering into another realm. "As for what you should do with this truth, Daemon, I believe you should consider reuniting with the scattered remnants of our Targaryen family. A Targaryen alone in the world is a lonely and perilous thing, as I know all too well."
A wistful smile touched Maester Aemon's lips. "Travel to Essos. Find your Uncle Viserys and your Aunt Daenerys. There, you might discover strength and purpose in each other's company. And who knows? Perhaps destiny has something extraordinary in store for you beyond the Narrow Sea."
Jon's brain was on overdrive. Reunite with Targaryen relatives he'd only heard about from TV? Travel to Essos? This was like stepping into a high-stakes adventure, with family drama and epic quests all rolled into one. It was like being handed the ultimate quest map, and it was up to him to follow it.
Jon's pulse quickened as he approached the next big reveal. This was it—the moment to pull the trigger on a plan that felt like it had been ripped straight from the climax of a blockbuster series. He was about to drop some serious knowledge on Maester Aemon.
"There's another thing I was hoping you could help me with," Jon began, his voice steady despite the inner fireworks. "Did you ever talk with my father, Rhaegar Targaryen? And did he ever mention having any prophetic dreams?"
Aemon's expression turned serious, as though he were about to drop some ancient wisdom. "Indeed, we exchanged many letters about his visions. Rhaegar believed they were of great importance and often sought my advice on their interpretation."
Cue the mental fanfare. Jon's brain was already running wild. Prophetic dreams? This was like discovering a hidden cheat code for the game of life. If he could leverage Maester Aemon's knowledge, his artifacts—Dawnbreaker, the Wakandan Shield, and the Night Fury Egg—could turn into legendary treasures, giving him an edge in this political maze. He was basically holding a hand of royal flushes in a world where bluffing was a matter of life and death.
Jon carefully pulled the artifacts from his inventory, each one feeling like it could tip the scales in his favor. This wasn't just about flashy items; this was his way of staking a claim in the chaos.
"I've been having visions from the Old Gods," Jon said, trying to keep his cool. "They led me to the Heart Tree at Winterfell, where I found a hidden trunk containing several key artifacts, including the armor I'm wearing now."
Maester Aemon's fingers danced over the armor with an almost reverential touch. Though blind, his appreciation for the craftsmanship was evident in the way his hands moved. This wasn't just a piece of metal; it was a symbol of potential greatness.
"This is exceptional work," Aemon commented, his tone heavy with admiration. "But what else did you find?"
Jon pulled out the Wakandan Vibranium Shield. "This shield is made from a rare metal called vibranium. It's incredibly durable and absorbs energy. The Old Gods gave it to me as a symbol of protection and strength."
Aemon's fingers explored the shield, his wonder palpable even without sight. "Remarkable," he said. "The skill involved in crafting such an item is extraordinary."
Next came Dawnbreaker. "This is Dawnbreaker. Forged by the Old Gods to fight the undead, it glows with a light said to banish darkness wherever it strikes."
Aemon's fingers traced the runes on the blade, and Jon could almost hear the respect in his voice. "An impressive weapon," he remarked. "May it serve you well in your quests, young Daemon."
Finally, Jon presented the Night Fury Egg. Aemon's reaction was one of pure awe. "This is a truly extraordinary gift," he said, his voice filled with hope. "The thought of dragons returning to Westeros... It brings a glimmer of hope to these dark times."
Jon felt a rush of triumph. He'd successfully showcased his treasures, making a statement that would surely get attention. It was like dropping the mic in the middle of an epic saga.
Maester Aemon's voice took on a solemn tone. "Daemon, the Old Gods gave you these treasures not just to mark House Targaryen's return but to aid you in a mission of epic proportions—to defeat the White Walkers once and for all."
Jon let the gravity of his words sink in. The stakes had never been higher, and he was in the middle of his own high-stakes plot twist. "They're waking up again, spreading terror and darkness. But with dragons and the strength of our united houses, we can drive them back to the Land of Always Winter and bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms."
Aemon's expression softened with a blend of reverence and determination. "To think I might witness the return of dragons and the fulfillment of ancient prophecies," he said.
He looked at Jon with newfound purpose. "Whatever you need, Daemon, I am here to help. My knowledge and support are yours. We'll see this through together."
Jon hesitated, a frown creasing his brow. "Would it be possible to say these treasures are a gift from my father, Rhaegar, passed down to me by you, Maester Aemon?" he asked. "I worry that talking about prophetic visions and gifts from the Old Gods might make people think I'm suffering from 'Targaryen Madness.'"
Aemon nodded thoughtfully. "That can certainly be arranged," he said, his tone reassuring. "I'll help you craft a story that respects your lineage while protecting you from suspicion. Together, we'll make sure these treasures are seen as they are meant to be—crucial tools in our fight against the darkness."
Jon's mind was already spinning with strategies and potential outcomes. It felt like he was at the start of an epic quest, with the entire game board laid out before him. Time to play his hand and see where this adventure would lead.
Just as Jon reached for the Night Fury egg, a deafening crack split the air, reverberating through the stone walls like something straight out of a dramatic plot twist. "Of course," Jon thought with a touch of exasperation, "things can't ever be straightforward, can they?"
The egg's shell began to splinter like a shattered prop in a fantasy epic. Jon's heart raced, mirroring the excitement he'd felt during those cliffhanger moments in his favorite TV shows. The cracks spread rapidly, and before he could blink, the shell shattered, unveiling the creature within.
Nestled among the fragments was a fully formed Night Fury. Its sleek, black scales gleamed under the dim light, and its enormous, curious eyes blinked open, letting out a soft, inquisitive sound.
"By the gods," Maester Aemon breathed, his voice quivering with a mix of awe and disbelief. "It's hatched."
Jon's jaw dropped. This wasn't special effects or CGI—this was real life, and it was breathtaking. "Well, this just went from 'fantasy' to 'epic quest,'" he mused internally, trying to keep his cool as the dragon's gaze met his own.
"May I hold the dragon?" Maester Aemon's request was soft, filled with a sense of wonder that made Jon feel like he was handing over a precious artifact from an ancient prophecy.
Jon passed the Night Fury over with a mix of reverence and excitement, almost as if he were presenting a rare gem to an esteemed ally. Aemon cradled the dragon gently, his face lighting up with a profound joy that seemed almost magical.
"Thank you, my boy," Aemon said, his voice brimming with gratitude. "This is a wondrous gift and a beacon of hope for our cause."
Jon felt a swell of pride, akin to watching a hero in one of his favorite epic sagas finally claim their prize. This was the right move, and the Night Fury was a powerful symbol of that.
As Aemon examined the dragon more closely, his fingers traced its unique scales with care.
"This dragon is intriguing," Aemon remarked, noting an unusual feature. "It has four legs, unlike the typical two for Valyrian dragons."
Jon's curiosity spiked. "So, what does that mean for us?"
"It suggests," Aemon continued thoughtfully, "that this dragon might be a special creation, perhaps a gift from the Old Gods themselves. What will you name him?"
Jon looked at the Night Fury, its black scales shimmering in the low light. "Drawing from the great dragons of old," he said, channeling his inner lore master, "I'll name him Vermithor, the Night Fury."
"A fitting name indeed," Aemon agreed, a smile of approval spreading across his face. "Vermithor, the Night Fury. May he serve you well in the trials ahead."
Jon nodded, feeling a surge of determination. "Thank you, Maester Aemon. Your guidance is invaluable. I know I'll need every bit of help I can get."
Aemon's smile was warm, a beacon of reassurance. "It is my honor to assist you, young Daemon. I have no doubt you will rise to the destiny that awaits."
Jon stood, a fresh wave of purpose flooding through him. It felt like stepping into the next chapter of a grand adventure, one brimming with challenges and triumphs. With Vermithor by his side and Maester Aemon's wisdom as his guide, Jon felt ready to tackle whatever the world threw his way. It was like the start of an epic saga—only this time, he was the hero in the middle of it.
—
The moment Jon's fingers brushed Vermithor's scales, a surge of energy shot through him, and everything around him plunged into a dizzying whirl of darkness. It was like getting sucked into a black hole of sensations and emotions—an epic overload of cosmic proportions.
In an instant, the chaos cleared, and Jon realized with a mix of awe and trepidation that he was inside Vermithor. He was warging into the dragon, as if he'd just plugged into a high-voltage network of instincts and senses. "Well, this is a new level of immersive experience," Jon thought, grappling with the surreal sensation of inhabiting a dragon.
He quickly checked his stats, his mind racing through the potential of this new reality. The updates were both thrilling and daunting:
- **Gacha Points:** 700
- **Equipped Items:** Dawnbreaker and the Wakandan Vibranium Shield
- **Warg Bonds:** Vermithor
- **Powers:** Night Vision, Enhanced Perception, with upgrades to Fire Resistance, Enhanced Agility, Stealth, and Intimidating Presence.
"This feels like hitting the jackpot in a fantasy game, but way more legit," Jon mused, trying to wrap his head around his upgraded abilities. The dragon's sleek, powerful form was a rush like nothing he'd ever experienced, and it was real—well, as real as this bizarre new world allowed.
He could feel Vermithor's heightened senses and fierce resolve. The dragon's fiery energy synced perfectly with his own resolve. This wasn't just a wild ride; it was an epic quest with a new set of dragon-powered skills. With Vermithor at his side, Jon felt ready to tackle the monstrous challenges that lay ahead. It was like being handed the ultimate cheat code to navigate the treacherous politics and looming threats of Westeros.
—
Jon took a deep breath, or rather, Vermithor did, and felt an electric jolt of energy surge through him. It was like being plugged into a live wire straight out of a sci-fi movie. Through Vermithor's senses, Jon was bombarded with a kaleidoscope of new sensations—blurry flashes of movement, the warmth of the dragon's tiny, fluttering breaths, and the delicate rustle of fragile wings.
It was a mix of exhilarating and slightly chaotic, like someone had turned up the intensity on a rollercoaster ride he hadn't signed up for. As Vermithor's newly awakened senses adjusted, Jon realized he had a whole new arsenal of abilities at his disposal. "Well, this definitely wasn't in the guidebook," he thought, trying to focus on the thrilling new sensations.
—
Maester Aemon noticed the sudden shift in Jon's expression and leaned forward, his weathered face creased with concern. "What has happened?" he asked, worry lacing his voice.
Jon took a deep breath, fighting the disorienting aftershocks of being inside Vermithor's tiny dragon body. "I can warg," he said, trying to sound more composed than he felt. "It's a gift from my Stark bloodline. I accidentally warged into Vermithor just now."
Maester Aemon's sightless eyes seemed to widen in awe. "The Old Gods have indeed favored you," he murmured, his voice imbued with reverence.
In the quiet of the solar, the lingering magic from their encounter wrapped around them like a warm cloak. Jon felt a rush of anticipation and relief. With Maester Aemon's wisdom and Vermithor's companionship, he felt like he was finally holding the right cards for the challenges ahead.
Their bond was more than family ties or titles—it was forged through shared purpose and mutual respect. The ancient prophecies and Jon's newfound powers blended into a tapestry of destiny that was both thrilling and intimidating.
With Vermithor, the tiny dragon with a mighty heart, and Maester Aemon, the sage advisor, Jon embraced his role as Daemon Targaryen with a mix of resolve and excitement. He was no longer just a kid from Winterfell; he was a pivotal figure in an epic saga.
As they prepared for the journey beyond the Wall and across the Seven Kingdoms, Jon felt a surge of confidence. Whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them together, allies bound by a common cause. In the shadowed halls of Castle Black, amidst the whispers of ancient legends, Jon and Maester Aemon were poised to carve their path into history, driven by courage and the promise of a brighter future.
---
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